Sanitary
by Shuck
Summary: He visits him at the hospital. Jin/Hwoarang.


**Sanitary**

He's breathless. The air stinks with the smell of disinfectant that makes his nose burn and the lingering tang of blood. For a moment it's hard to pick up the scent of injury and death but with persistence its trace is there like a breath veiled behind the wind. The silence is only broken by his trembling limbs, by his gasps in the air of the dark and empty hallways. Wordlessly he stumbles through the murk, drawn by the faintest blot of the life he seeks in this place and there is no one to prevent his visitation.

Pale and sombre, the bandages almost cover the face of his most hated and beloved and it almost chokes him with a mixture of love and violence. He can feel his demon writhe, tiny whispers urging for him to succumb and finish what he started, but Kazama Jin resists for just this moment. No feature of the broken figure before him is hidden from his sight. In the darkness he can see every blotch of blood and swaddle of bandage. The bruises are dark, ugly imps that sit on perfect, sweat-stained skin as a testament to his violence, laughing up at their commander.

The machines are heavy, their bleeps and butts almost drown the screaming inside his head and he is overcome with the sensation of utter confusion. He draws closer, almost touches the red down of hair that always made him think of some beautiful beast and is overcome with grief. It's little else but a strangled cry in the dark, falling deaf on the ears of the ruined body underneath him. Trembling, his fingers trace the exposed skin of his cheek and to his horror Jin can see the talons at the ends of fingers and becomes aware of feathers at his back and gore at his head.

There is no clink of chains or growl of danger at his lips but Jin can feel it: blood pumping in ears too deaf to hear anything but the rhythm of machines that mock the breath of their ward. Those clawed fingers trace skin to jawline, across the exposed flesh of a neck and to the threadbare linen that rests atop bruised and broken collar bones. He considers that throat once, feels the thought of teeth and fresh, gushing blood and almost utters his name before tearing the sheet away.

Hwoarang is somehow more beautiful in his brokenness, or maybe Jin thinks that because of the guilt. The redhead clings to a stable coma, a feeble shot at life. It's only been several hours since Jin was able to compose the demon within and it's all he can do to control the anger and despair but he has to _know_, he has to _see_ the damage of his hand, of his pure and utter _weakness._

His victim is shirtless, marbled: beautiful skin of pale tan to ugly, marred purple that is slashed with the harshness of white cloth which in turn, is burnt through by black blood. Hwoarang is no longer strong and when Jin presses his head against that tender, shallow chest there is barely a breath in those tired, struggling lungs. Teeth gnash together, fingers almost tear the bruised skin of his victim's chest from where they lie sprawled over to feel the faint warmth of his essence. It's more than he can bear.

The voice screams again, desperate to finish, angry that the job is incomplete. It would give anything to tear his soul apart, lusts for the blood of loved ones to break his spirit further, but Jin breathes and its strong and his lips find Hwoarang's and suddenly, the tears come. They burn like acid, soak the bandages over his sorry other's face. Some fingers lack claws and these are the ones that trace that tender neck, that feel the tight musculature of that struggling chest, of those still arms and trembling sides.

Jin pulls his bulk away, his eyes glaze with tears and he can see fire, twisted metal, tarmac stained with blood. There is rage: at Hwoarang, at himself, at his demon and suddenly there is laughter in his ears that almost syncs with the thrum of the machinery. He blinks, shudders, tries to calm the beating of his frantic, trembling heart but the laughter grows, becomes a cacophony of screams and nails down chalkboards as the machines blink faster, as they build with the pressure of a besieged heart and he can barely feel his fingers move over that soft, warm skin or the trickle of blood at his claws.

Hwoarang cannot choke; he cannot struggle or give any indication as his life slips away. Jin gives a groan of desperation and its command at once stills the lunacy in his ears. The din of machines recedes, becomes slower, becomes normal like the gentle rhythm of a slow and calming heartbeat once again. The strength of death in Jin's hands recedes and they tremble as he almost vomits; the smell of blood on his fingers. He can't bear it any longer and all the sorrows and apologies he yearns to express melt away with the laughter in his head and he knows that _he can't be here anymore_.

In the morning, the nurses will no doubt wonder where the cuts and fresh bruises that mar their patient's neck have come from, but Hwoarang is safe. He will live because Jin is not there. Maybe he will hate him, or fear him or wonder where he is, but for now there is nothing but the sound of footsteps on sanitary floors and the quiet click of a door and the receding sound of laughter in a dizzy, lovesick mind.


End file.
